


Snowflakes and Whiskey

by mickie



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas Eve, Fluff, M/M, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, POV Mycroft Holmes, Sassy Jim, Whiskey - Freeform, mycroft is lonely, snowflakes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-25 04:19:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17114339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mickie/pseuds/mickie
Summary: Mycroft gets a visitor on Christmas Eve.This story is now complete.





	1. 2011: You’re Supposed to Be Dead

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fabricdragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabricdragon/gifts).



> This story is based on the prompts that fabricdragon and I came up with for holiday stories: snow/snowflakes, "I insist!", candy canes, and interruptions.

**2011: You’re Supposed to Be Dead**

“I suppose it’s just the three of us again this year,” Mycroft said while grating some cocoa butter into a small saucepan and silently insisting to himself that he was content. He eyed his corgi salt and pepper shakers and turned on the heat to low. “Philip, I expect you to keep Elizabeth away from the stove this year. Last year’s shenanigans were worthy of Sherlock.”

Thinking of his little brother, currently in France, and Dr. Watson, mourning Sherlock’s _death_ , caused Mycroft to purse his lips. “It’s for the best this way,” he murmured as he watched the cocoa butter start to melt. “Sherlock needs purpose in his life beyond the next high, distracting the good Dr. Watson, and chasing after insanely brilliant criminals.” He eyed the salt shaker. “Moriarty’s network needs elimination and your majesty could use his assistance with some other pesky international problems. Three birds, four actually, one stone. I couldn’t ask for more.”

After adding some cocoa powder and sugar, Mycroft retrieved a wooden spoon and started stirring. He did worry about Dr. Watson a bit. The man seemed to have taken Sherlock’s death much harder than Mycroft had expected and he felt bad about that. However, Dr. Watson’s reactions and grief were necessary to keep up appearances thereby ensuring Sherlock’s safety. He made a mental note to check in with Dr. Watson in the morning.

Mycroft was about to add the cream when he heard his security system chime that someone was opening the front door and his heart soared for a moment. Perhaps Sherlock had taken a brief respite from the assignment in France and come to see him. Then reality set in. Sherlock wouldn’t leave a case. It was probably Anthea, the only other person who had an entry code to his house, because he’d left her to collect information on a difficult case and she probably had a question or two.

Turning down the heat and regretting that he’d made just one, albeit large, portion, Mycroft strode toward the door. He saw the man as he entered the foyer. Man. Not Anthea. Short. Not Sherlock. Ridiculously festooned gift bag in hand. Going to a party afterward. Kooples leather collar coat, wool and cashmere blend, leather details, crested buttons. _Moriarty_. 

“You’re supposed to be _dead_ ,” Mycroft blurted out while realizing that he’d left the panic alert button in his coat that was currently in his bedroom closet and his phone was in the kitchen.

“Brilliant observation, Mr. Holmes,” Moriarty said and pushed the door shut. “Don’t worry, I’m here for just a teensy visit. I won’t stay long.” Mycroft remained silent as he rapidly considered all the options for dealing with the threat. 

Moriarty smirked. “I’m not here to kill you. I’m just dropping this off for you.” He held up the gift bag.

“You’re supposed to be dead,” Mycroft repeated more primly than the first time.

Moriarty answered in that sing-song voice Mycroft abhorred. “I’m just as dead as Sher-ly.” 

Memories of the interrogation flooded Mycroft’s mind and his eyes narrowed. “Then best you see your way back out the door,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Awwwww, that’s no fun,” Moriarty countered and handed Mycroft the bag, which Mycroft took instinctively. It seemed to contain a glass bottle filled with amber liquid. “For you, happy holidays, since no one else remembered you or bothered to think you were important enough.”

Mycroft smiled wanly and bit his lip. He wanted to retort sharply but a witty response in the face of Moriarty eluded him. Curse the man. “What’s the matter, Mr. Holmes? The proverbial cat’s got your tongue...?” He slipped out of his coat and reached for the closet door.

“No, I’m merely being efficient,” Mycroft finally replied. “Anything I say to you will be an exercise in futility and I’m having such a pleasant evening that I don’t want it to be ruined more than you already have. Thank you for the gift. I’ll flush it as soon as you leave. You, however, have selected the wrong door.” He pointed to the front door. “That one will get you a head start escaping the MI6 agents that I’ve already summoned.”

“You haven’t called anyone.”

“My system did.”

“Your system did no such thing,” Moriarty replied gleefully. “I hacked it last year.” He hung up his coat. “We can have a shot, chat about _Paris_ -”

That word caused panic to well up within Mycroft and he gasped. Moriarty couldn’t possibly know where Sherlock was. “I do know,” Moriarty gloated but then his expression softened. “Let’s have a little talk, shall we?”

“Fine,” Mycroft said through gritted teeth. “This way.” He led Moriarty to the kitchen and indicated the table. “Sit. That will do for you. I’m not going to bother to set the formal table.”

Moriarty did so and Mycroft turned the heat up on the hot chocolate once more. “This works,” Moriarty said. “What are you making?”

“Hot chocolate,” Mycroft replied tersely.

“Ooooo, we can make _Irish_ hot chocolate.”

Mycroft contemplated the amount of hot chocolate that he’d made and started adding the cream. If there wasn’t much, Moriarty would leave that much sooner. He supposed that the idea of a hot chocolate with whiskey wasn’t as horrible as it sounded. Moriarty had already had ample opportunity to kill him and whatever the man had brought probably wasn’t poisoned. That would be boring. Mycroft winced. And probably too quick for what Moriarty had planned for him.

“I can’t believe that there are people that still make hot chocolate that way,” Moriarty noted.

“There are.”

“I’m not surprised that you’re one of them though.”

Mycroft somehow felt stung by that comment and decided to change the subject. “Paris, you said.”

“I did.”

“Elaborate.”

“Once we have our drinks.”

Mycroft sighed and finished making the hot chocolate in silence while earnestly damning Moriarty to every level of the Abyss in both numerical and alphabetical order. Eventually, he poured the hot chocolate into two mugs, added spoons, and set them on the table before sitting down. Moriarty pushed the gift bag toward him. “Is this where it explodes, killing us both?” Mycroft asked. “That would be dramatic.” Moriarty rolled his eyes but didn’t comment.

Eying all the ribbons and bows, Mycroft found himself wondering if the explosives were hidden in the decorations. _That_ would be clever. “Just pull it out,” Moriarty grumbled but then looked behind Mycroft. “It’s snowing.”

“A surprising occurence for December,” Mycroft said drily and dug through what had to be enough ribbon to decorate presents for twenty children and their siblings. He found a bottle of whiskey. “Kilbeggan,” he said reading the name. 

“Best Irish whiskey for mixing into things like your morning tea, coffee, or hot chocolate.”

Mycroft shrugged. “I’ve heard of it but never tried it.”

“Go on, then.” Moriarty indicated that he should open the bottle and Mycroft did so before pouring what he knew would be the twenty five milliliters of a jigger into each of the mugs. Moriarty laughed and stirred the beverage. “Ooooo, that’s going to be strong.”

Mycroft smiled wanly. “So, Paris,” he said and then lifted his drink. It would have been rude not to do so even if the other person was Moriarty and they were using mugs. 

“Cheers,” Moriarty said as they tapped their mugs. He took a sip and smiled genuinely. “Perfect.” Mycroft tried it and had to agree. It was certainly strong but delicious and warmed him in a way that other drinks didn’t. 

Moriarty’s expression turned serious. “Sherlock’s looking at three operations in Paris,” he said and the look in his eyes reminded Mycroft of a cobra. Deadly. “The Adrien-Chatagnier group is still active but they moved to the environs of Montparnasse.” 

Mycroft nodded. He knew that group had been quiet lately and had guessed that they were in hiding. They could easily start looking in that quarter. “I’ll inform Sherlock.”

“Paul Adrien is re-establishing his center of operations out of a little restaurant near the Musée Bourdelle,” Moriarty continued.

“Which one?”

“That would be telling,” Moriarty teased. “Sherly can find it.” He took another sip. “This is delicious, Mycroft.”

“Thank you.” Mycroft wanted to add that it really was much, much better with the addition of the Kilbeggan but he didn’t want it to go to Moriarty’s head.

“Next, Jean-Louis le Petit Monstre has left France,” Moriarty said. “He set a trap once he realized someone was hunting my lieutenants and contacts so you’d best tell Sherly to look for one Davis Wellington instead. From there he can find everything that was set up.”

“And where is Jean-Louis?”

“Telling.”

“Fine,” Mycroft grumbled. He was incredibly perturbed that Moriarty knew everything that Sherlock had been sent to do and didn’t really know what to make of the fact that the man was giving him information freely.

“You could be a bit more grateful.”

“I am, quite so, if it is verified, but I’m not sure what to make of you being here providing this information.”

Moriarty shrugged. “My mam said you should never spend Christmas Eve alone and we needed _something_ to chat about. Drinking in silence is odd.” Mycroft nodded and found himself agreeing with the sentiments. 

“The third one, the Vastine case…” Moriarty continued and Mycroft’s eyes widened. No one but he and Sherlock and a scant few others in MI6 even knew of the existence of that case. “Yes, that one.” Moriarty smiled smugly. “We both know that’s got nothing to do with me so, why are you giving it to Sherly?”

“He owes the British government.”

“No, he doesn’t,” Moriarty countered. “Sherlock’s a free spirit and the lot of you are trying to shackle him down or take advantage of him.” Mycroft’s jaw fell open and his eyes widened at the stark estimation and admiration of Sherlock. “Regardless, Vastine is actually not a spy but his PA is, works for China. The connection is one Vicki Li. Start there.”

Mycroft shook his head. The Vastine case had been a thorn in MI6’s side for months and, if what Moriarty said was true, he’d just been given the answers that he needed. He stared at Moriarty and tried to think of something to say.

Moriarty finished his drink. “This was wonderful, Mycroft,” he said. “I should be off.” He rose and then looked out the kitchen window again. “My Gran used to say that every snowflake that fell on Christmas Eve was a wish. If you caught one with your tongue, it would come true.”

“Is that an Irish fairytale?” Mycroft asked.

Moriarty shrugged. “I don’t know,” he replied. “I think Gran might have made it up to entertain me or get me out of the house.”

Mycroft smiled and felt something- couldn’t be tenderness- at hearing that little story. “It’s a lovely thought.”

“It is,” Moriarty agreed. “Look.” he pointed to the window. “Big fat flakes. They’re pretty.”

“They are.” Mycroft followed Moriarty to the foyer and then helped him with his coat. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

“My pleasure,” Moriarty said and looked at him pensively. Mycroft wondered what the man saw and if he could see all the way through him. “Have a good evening.”

“You as well.” Mycroft let Moriarty out and then closed the door. He went to the window and watched Moriarty leave. The man walked several steps then turned to look at the window. He shot Mycroft a lurid look before slowly extending his tongue and waiting until a snowflake landed on it. Moriarty then pulled his tongue back in, slowly, suggestively, and blew him a kiss.


	2. 2012: Stay Away From Serbia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The following Christmas Eve, Mycroft gets another visit.

**2012: Stay Away From Serbia**

Throughout the year, Mycroft took precautions. Many of them. Sherlock’s cases were scrutinized meticulously before being assigned to him. All of MI6’s computer systems and firewalls were updated and hardened against intrusions. Mycroft also had his home security system reevaluated. He still wasn’t completely reassured.

On Christmas Eve, after he’d finished his Chinese takeaway and instructed Philip and Elizabeth to warn him in advance of any mostly-uninvited guests, he set about making _two_ servings of hot chocolate. The Kilbeggan was long gone. He’d used it to make Irish hot chocolate every time Sherlock successfully completed a mission. The irony pleased him. And he tried not to think of Moriarty every time.

Just as the previous year, the security system chimed that someone was unlocking the front door. Sherlock was in Bavaria hunting counterfeiters and Anthea was in Lisbon delivering some communiqués to the British ambassador. So much for the updates. Mycroft sighed with resignation and some trepidation. “Is that you, Mr. Moriarty?” he said loudly but didn’t leave the kitchen.

“You get three guesses as to who it is and the first two don’t count,” a voice with an Irish lilt said merrily. 

Mycroft smiled despite himself and then heard the closet door close. “Hot chocolate is almost done,” he announced and turned when he heard footsteps at the entry to the kitchen. It was Moriarty and he held a gift bag in his hand that made the previous one look positively unexceptional. “Do you own stock in a ribbon company, by any chance, or are you trying to frustrate me with absurd levels of festivity?”

Moriarty looked at the gift bag and smiled knowingly. “I’m trying to make your holiday brighter, Mr. Holmes, because no one else does.”

“Do sit down.” Mycroft indicated the kitchen table that had his two favorite mugs: Hermès, Voyage en Ikat, and a plate of chocolate peppermint biscuits shaped like candy canes from one of his favorite bakeries set on it. “I still can’t be arsed to set a proper dining room table for you but there is an empty chair that might tolerate your presence without upending you.”

“Such a kind and fastidious host you are.”

“Of course.” Mycroft poured the hot chocolate. “I only bring out the best for you, Mr. Moriarty.”

Moriarty snorted. “Call me Jim. And look, it’s snowing. We get wishes again.”

“Yes, it is, and I do prefer formality,” Mycroft said while sitting down. 

Moriarty pushed the gift bag toward him. “Boooring,” he said in his sing-song voice. Mycroft glared at him. “Oh, c’mon. After all the waterboarding and electricity…” Mycroft winced. “Not to mention the beatings, you can call me Jim.”

“James, perhaps?” Mycroft suggested while hoping that Moriarty didn’t have some elaborate payback designed just for him.

“I suppose,” Moriarty said and rolled his eyes. “Go on, open it.”

Mycroft dug through the mounds of ribbon and retrieved another bottle of Kilbeggan. “Just what the doctor ordered,” he said with a pleased smile that Sherlock claimed looked ridiculous on him and started opening the bottle. With enough whiskey, the evening and Moriarty’s presence might not be overly difficult to tolerate.

“Leave Watson out of it,” James grumbled. “Although I think it’s a poor decision not to tell him the truth.”

“I didn’t think you cared.” Mycroft poured a jigger’s worth of whiskey into James’s mug and then his own.

“I don’t, but it’s still a poor idea.”

“It’s for the best.”

“If you say so.” James stirred his hot chocolate and then took a sip before sighing contentedly. “Delicious.” He looked pointedly at the biscuits. “Did you make those?”

Mycroft shook his head. “No, I don’t bake… much.”

“Tell me another,” James snickered.

Mycroft took a sip of his hot chocolate and decided to change the subject quickly. He didn’t need another person badgering him about his diet. “Sherlock did well in France,” he said. “I was concerned that the information that you had provided, even after we verified it, might lead him astray but not so.” 

He paused for a moment before continuing, “Of course, Sherlock’s work did further _your_ goals just a bit, didn’t it?” James smiled mischievously. “A certain Frenier family seems to be moving in and filling some of the voids that Sherlock created.”

“It’s reassuring that you can keep up, darling.”

“I wouldn’t want to disappoint you,” Mycroft said flatly. 

James picked up a biscuit and dipped it in the hot chocolate. Mycroft did so as well and both were silent for a few minutes. Eventually James looked directly into Mycroft’s eyes and Mycroft imagined a snake coiling, ready to strike. “Don’t send Sherlock to Serbia.”

Mycroft shivered at those words and how they were delivered. Absolutely no one should have known that Serbia was an upcoming destination for his brother. “Why do you say that?” he mumbled nonchalantly around a bite of his biscuit.

“I didn’t do much work in that area,” James answered with a serious voice. “The operatives there are untrustworthy and it’s just not safe. Even for Sherlock, brilliant as he is.” 

Mycroft wasn’t sure what to make of what he’d just heard. Moriarty seemed candid but there was always an ulterior motive for anything and everything that the man did. Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled slowly. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he murmured.

“Send him to Brazil instead,” James suggested cheerfully. 

“No.”

“I insist! It’s warm and the smugglers that I was working with in São Paulo have recently annoyed me. They need to go.”

Mycroft glared at him. “He’s not doing your dirty work for you.”

“Only yours,” James countered sweetly.

“He’s repaying the crown for numerous expenses and exceptions.”

“It’s been over a year that you’ve had him running here, there, and everywhere, poor dear. That’s excessive. Sherly needs a nice vacation that involves umbrella drinks.”

“He’ll be fine in Serbia, doing something worthwhile,” Mycroft said firmly. James appeared skeptical but didn’t speak further on the matter.

Both slowly finished the remaining hot chocolate in silence and then James rose. “Well, I’d best be off. No rest for the wicked.”

“Do try to stay out of _serious_ trouble,” Mycroft advised as they made their way toward the front door. “I’d rather not have to allocate resources in your general direction again.”

James chuckled. “Look who’s talking,” he said smugly and again looked directly into Mycroft’s eyes. “By the by, Mycroft Holmes, that cute, well-endowed, little Sophie that you’re shagging at work, she’s on the payroll of another organization.”

It took all of Mycroft’s willpower not to react with shock and keep his mouth firmly closed. How on earth had James known about _that_?! “Who?” he finally asked as blandly as he could manage.

“Oh, please,” James purred and put on his coat. “No need for pretense. I’ve always known you like to get it wet every now and then. She’s CIA.” He opened the door. “Look snowflakes! I need to catch myself another wish.” Staring in disbelief, Mycroft watched him walk away but then stop, wink at him, and catch a snowflake with his tongue. It was just as decadent and filthy as the previous year.


	3. 2013/2014: M is For Madness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty continues to visit Mycroft on Christmas Eve.

**2013: M is For Madness**

It was snowing heavily and, as Mycroft stared out the window, he absentmindedly wondered if he too, that year, shouldn’t try catching a snowflake or ten in the hope of getting a fortuitous wish. He would settle, at the very least, for some refuge from the bad luck that seemed to have plagued him in the past year. 

“What do you think?” he asked the corgi salt and pepper shakers. Philip and Elizabeth remained silent on the matter. “I could wish for Sherlock to remain in one piece without monumental intervention.” The kitchen timer beeped and he pulled a tray of gingerbread people from the oven. While they cooled he started making a batch of royal icing.

Moriarty had been correct on all counts. Sophie had turned out to be a CIA agent and Mycroft had been dismayed that he hadn’t noticed sooner. The knowledge that she hadn’t gotten any significant information was small reassurance. He wanted to blame preoccupation with Sherlock but someone in his position simply couldn’t make excuses like that.

Sending Sherlock to Serbia had been an unmitigated disaster. His younger brother had nearly died if not for a timely text with GPS coordinates from a mysterious source whom Mycroft had later determined to be James. He couldn’t fathom what the man wanted or why he’d saved Sherlock but he was grateful. 

In 2011 he and Moriarty had parted on unpleasant terms after Mycroft had interrogated the man. Mycroft kept trying to convince himself that _torture_ wasn’t a more appropriate word, and that wasn’t what had led to Moriarty destroying Sherlock’s reputation and forcing Sherlock to fake his death. All his rationalizations now seemed hollow and he didn’t know what to do about the current Moriarty situation. 

The security system chimed just as soon as Mycroft had finished the icing. “Bother,” he said to Philip. He’d hoped to decorate the biscuits before James arrived but he’d been too slow, lost in too many thoughts. “Good evening,” he said loudly after he heard the front door close.

“What did you do?” James asked. “The house smells delicious.” Mycroft waited for James to appear and then showed him the gingerbread people. “You baked!” James exclaimed, beaming gleefully.

“Someone thinks that I do that periodically.”

“You do.”

“I was hoping to decorate them prior to your arrival,” Mycroft explained, “But you were punctual.”

“Apologies. I’ll try harder next time.”

“Perhaps we can ice them together and it will be equally satisfactory.”

“Or it might even be _fun_ ,” James said and set down yet another ridiculously decorated gift bag on the kitchen table. “I see I still don’t merit setting the big table.”

“Criminals never merit anything,” Mycroft said dryly. James stuck his tongue out at him, and Mycroft was so flabbergasted at the silliness of the gesture that he simply stared at the man for a moment. “Sit,” he finally grumbled.

Laughing, James sat down. “Thank you,” Mycroft said quietly while bringing everything to the table. “For all of it.” James nodded. “I don’t understand why you did it but I truly am grateful.”

“You took my cameras out of your office though,” James complained. “I miss the shows.”

“Did you expect any less?” Mycroft said. Immediately after James’s last visit, he’d searched his office and not found anything. Later he’d asked Sherlock who’d discovered two of them immediately and had laughed at Mycroft.

“Sherlock looked grumpy hunting for them.”

“I called him in because he does so excel at finding mine.”

James laughed out loud and looked at Mycroft pointedly before repeating, “Did _you_ expect anything less?”

“No.” Mycroft handed James utensils and both started decorating. Mycroft was thoroughly scandalized by James’s first two anatomically correct gingerbread people but then he decided it truly couldn’t hurt to have a few fetish biscuits. James seemed somewhat entertained with his endeavors. 

At some point Mycroft retrieved the Kilbeggan from the gift bag and discovered that this year James had also gifted him with some Skelligs handmade chocolate truffles. “You’re spoiling me,” he murmured. “Thank you.”

“You’ve been upping the ante,” James said and indicated the biscuits. “I can’t let you outshine me. Ever.”

“I don’t think that could happen,” Mycroft said. “For starters, I’m not insane.” James gasped with mock dismay. Mycroft smiled and poured some whiskey in their hot chocolates. “Do you have any important tidbits for me this year?”

James laughed and shook his head. “And here I thought you liked me for my charming personality and good looks.”

“It’s the chaos that draws me.”

“That’s part of my natural charm,” James teased and then took a sip of the hot chocolate. “You do know that John Watson’s new girlfriend is nothing but trouble.”

Mycroft sighed with dismay. “An unfortunate situation, considering how fragile Watson has been of late. Her identity is impeccable however.”

“I know,” James murmured smugly.

“I should have guessed that you were involved considering how ironclad it is.”

“She’s not really the problem,” James continued. “Your friend, Magnussen, is aware of her and I’m sure you can imagine him rubbing his hands with glee over that.” Mycroft sighed. He’d already begun to suspect the implications of the situation: Mary-John-Sherlock-him. Magnussen was probably salivating at what he could do with the information he wielded.

“Do you want Daddy to fix it for you?” James asked quietly. 

Mycroft looked up at him sharply. He knew exactly what James meant by that, and it was such an easy answer. A simple solution that could never be traced back to him. “What’s the price?”

“Remove all trace of my existence from British Intelligence systems, electronic and otherwise, and _never_ come after me again.”

Those words again reminded Mycroft of how similar Moriarty was to a deadly snake and yet, he knew that he should accept the offer. “No,” he said tersely. “I can’t.”

“Suit yourself,” James said and picked up a gingerbread person Mycroft had decorated in bondage gear. “Cheers.”

Mycroft felt somewhat relieved that James had let the topic go even though he couldn’t shake the sense of dread. Taking a deep breath, he also picked up a biscuit. “Cheers. Let’s indulge this evening. I really can’t eat all of these by myself...” James laughed. They managed to finish off a little more than half and Mycroft packed a few to send with James. 

On his way out, James suggested that Mycroft try to catch a snowflake wish for himself but Mycroft refused. Instead he savored watching James make an obscenely sensual production of capturing a snowflake and vowed not to think of it throughout the year.

 

**2014: The Madness Continues**

Mycroft heard his security system chime and knew that James had arrived but he couldn’t move. He was sitting in the kitchen with the lights off and had accomplished nothing, except perhaps make it look like he hadn’t been silently crying. The ingredients for hot chocolate were on the counter, untouched. Empty take away containers were strewn about. 

Earlier in the year, he’d planned on either setting the dining room table for James or perhaps serving something more than hot chocolate and biscuits. 

After Sherlock had killed Magnussen, Mycroft had desperately tried to find a way to protect his brother but to no avail. The choice was a trial and certain incarceration or a suicide mission in Eastern Europe and nothing Mycroft had said or done had been successful in moderating the consequences.

The lights came on in the foyer. He heard James hanging up his coat and then the lights came on in the kitchen. “Mycroft?” James murmured. A simple green and red gift bag was placed in front of him as James walked past and started making the hot chocolate. The man seemed to know exactly what to do and where everything was located. Mycroft remained silent while trying to get himself further under control.

After James placed two mugs and spoons on the table, Mycroft pulled the familiar bottle of Kilbeggan from the gift bag and added it to the hot chocolate. “Please, James, will you fix it for me?” he asked and took a sip. It was just as good as the ones he made. No, it was better. “Name your price. I don’t care.” James nodded.


	4. 2015: Did You Miss Me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim once again visits Mycroft on Christmas Eve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story has kept fairly close to canon so far but it veers off because s4 doesn't work all that well for me.
> 
> Thanks everyone for reading. I hope you all had a good holiday and I wish you nothing but the best in the coming year.

**2015: Did You Miss Me?**

Mycroft did not refrain that Christmas Eve. He set the dining room table with his great-grandmother’s lace tablecloth, his Gorham La Scala silverware, and his Wedgwood Cornucopia china. He’d bought a few sprigs of holly to decorate the table and had them in Waterford crystal bud vases.

A traditional holiday dinner for two had been ordered from his favorite restaurant: turkey, pigs in blankets, roast potatoes, rosemary stuffing, yorkshire pudding, cranberry sauce, gravy, brussel sprouts, and trifle and mince pies for dessert. The house smelled like the feasts he remembered as a child.

It had been a challenging year but Sherlock was currently in rehab and the political situation around him seemed to have calmed somewhat. James had intervened dramatically, hacking every computer system in Britain, coincidentally interrupting numerous high-level meetings, thereby forcing the hand of all the government officials involved that might have thought to insist on punishment for Sherlock.

Mycroft had been suitably impressed but dreaded what the price would be. The first few weeks of waiting were hellish. When Mycroft blocked a weapon smuggling operation in Somalia that he was sure involved Moriarty, he barely got any sleep and night after night imagined various scenarios of his career ending in increasingly creative ways. Nothing.

In late spring, Mycroft sent the man a text reminder and received no reply. During the summer and early fall, he sent a few more and added vague inquiries about James’s health. The most significant reply he’d gotten was a weather report from Tahiti. Curse the man. Mycroft wanted to complete their deal, or at least get a sense of what the arrangement would be. Moriarty never demanded anything. 

At precisely seven, the security system chimed and Mycroft strode to the door. It was James. “Merry Christmas,” he said, ushering the man inside and then closing the door.

“I warranted your leaving the kitchen this year?” James teased and allowed Mycroft to take his coat. 

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “I imagine the only thing that you warrant is an indictment.”

“You’ve got nothing solid on me, and I’m dead,” James said playfully and then inhaled deeply while handing Mycroft a gift bag that put all the others combined to shame. “I smell... dinner. Did you cook?”

“No,” Mycroft admitted. “But I ordered everything and it’s currently warming in the oven.”

“Close enough,” James said. “This coming from you and your previous levels of hospitality toward international criminals, I’m somehow impressed.” He paused and stared at Mycroft pensively. “I can’t remember the last time I had a full Christmas dinner. Actually, I don’t think I’ve _ever_ had one.” 

Mycroft wasn’t surprised by that statement. Even though he’d never been able to find anything specific about James’s childhood, he could easily surmise that it hadn’t been easy or overly joyous. As they walked toward the kitchen, James stopped short and stared at the dining room. He turned to look at Mycroft with questioning eyes but didn’t say anything.

“After everything with Sherlock, I felt that _I_ deserved a celebration,” Mycroft said as matter of factly as he could although he wasn’t sure that a smile hadn’t escaped him.

“How is he?” James asked and Mycroft was grateful for the diversion. “And can I help you move things to the table?”

“Yes,” Mycroft answered, opening the oven. “Sherlock is doing better. He agreed that rehab would be helpful and went as close to willingly as he ever does with anything that he hasn’t come up with himself.”

James nodded while peeking under one foil-covered dish. “Mmmmm… potatoes. And how is he coming along with it?”

“Fairly well, I think,” Mycroft answered. “That is, the staff think that he’s doing fine and he’s making an effort to attend their programs even if he refuses to engage overly much.”

“It’s too ordinary for him. I would have probably had them all shot after a few hours.”

Mycroft winced as he remembered visiting the facility. “I would have to agree. I attended one session with him and I found it to be an interesting combination of somewhat helpful and excruciatingly painful.”

“I’m surprised Sherly hasn’t organized a coup yet.” Both laughed at that thought. Mycroft began carving the turkey while James made two plates with small portions of each dish. Mycroft then lit two candles and dimmed the lights, hoping that it didn’t seem overly trite. James, however, seemed content and the conversation soon flowed easily. Mycroft relaxed. The shared conviviality felt like a balm to his soul and he felt years of worry and stress ease away.

James related his adventures of the past year and then playfully condescended to explain how he’d hacked British Intelligence and all of London’s screens and monitors. Mycroft immediately suggested that James come to work for him. As a consultant, of course. James laughed and shook his head.

Mycroft smiled cheerfully and explained, “I have come to the conclusion that the best way to keep you out of trouble or from causing it, is to give you the keys and a gold-plated invitation.” James laughed again. “Think about it. You’re bored, clearly. A trip to Tahiti screams ennui if i don’t think about what else you could have possibly been doing there.” Both chuckled. “I’ll find something that suits your abilities and challenges your mind.”

James smiled coyly. “I’m going to mostly decline.”

“ _Mostly_ gives me something to work with,” Mycroft said gleefully while James feigned disgruntlement. “But,” he continued, “ I still haven’t properly thanked you for your intervention.”

“You texted me.”

“Properly,” Mycroft said. James flashed him a quirky smile that Mycroft suddenly found adorable whereas before it had infuriated him to no end. 

“Go on then,” James said. “Worship the ground I walk on.”

Mycroft wanted to issue a scathing retort to that statement but felt that he was somehow being distracted. Interesting. Instead he murmured quietly, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” James looked away for moment then turned back to Mycroft. “And... did _you_?”

Realizing what James was asking, Mycroft smiled wryly as he immediately came up with numerous self-serving and vague answers but he again settled for simplicity and the truth. “Yes… immensely,” he said. James’s eyes widened as though he hadn’t expected such candor. Could no games and honesty be the way to disarm the man? “I did miss you. I missed you after your first Christmas Eve visit even though I didn’t quite realize it. And I’ve missed you throughout each subsequent year although I could never admit it to myself.”

A timid smile, so unlike anything else in Moriarty’s array of cynical and snide expressions appeared on his face. “Really?” Mycroft nodded once. James pointed to the still untouched gift bag. “There’s something else in there for you, besides the usual.”

Mycroft pulled the gift bag close. “You mean besides this mountain of curling ribbon that you see fit to inflict on me every year?” James scrunched his nose and smirked, which Mycroft found adorable as well. He pulled out the bottle of Kilbeggan and set it aside. “With dessert,” he noted and then continued searching.

At the bottom of the bag, he found a sprig of mistletoe. “This?” Mycroft asked as he disentangled it. James nodded and Mycroft felt his heart warm. He didn’t want to understand what was happening between them but he liked it and he decided not to question it too deeply.

“I suppose it would be in poor form to have you arrested now,” Mycroft said while standing and pushing in his chair. James arched an eyebrow. Mycroft moved to the other side of the table, held the mistletoe over James’s head, and looked at him expectantly.

“I like handcuffs,” James said, slowly rising.

“You probably know how to get out of them,” Mycroft stated.

“Easily.” James pulled Mycroft close and kissed him. Hard. Mycroft returned the favor, equally. He wanted to touch, hold, claim every part of the other man. At some point Mycroft felt his sportcoat being pulled off and that was enough of a cue for him to throw the mistletoe on the table and proceed to unbutton every button on James that he could find. At some point James murmured breathlessly, “I also like you like this.” 

“I hope you didn’t think that I was prudish or restrained,” Mycroft said.

“Sherly left one of my cameras,” Jim said against Mycroft’s lips. “The _good_ one. He winked and blew me a kiss before walking away. You weren’t looking.”

“I think I’m going to have to make you, both of you, pay for that.”

“I hope so…”

 

 _The end_.


End file.
